For the Love of Wands
by August Melodies
Summary: Clara Oswald and Sherlock Holmes meet at Hogwarts. Who is this impossible girl, and what is she doing with his wand? Year One. In progress.
1. Prologue

Everybody has a talent. The words had been crooned into her ear and whispered soothingly to her for quite some time now. Everybody has a talent, Clara. Even you. And always, she had replied. "I don't have a talent." And it was true, as far as Clara knew. She had spent her life in the same small orphanage, fifteen girls and six boys milling around. Nobody was adopted. The kids told you that first thing when you arrived.

"They all say that someone's agonna come back round here t' adopt us," Libby, a twelve-year-old painter, had told her with a thick accent. "But anobody eva' does." For the first month or so, Clara didn't believe her. She actively waited, made posters for her "parents", and annoyed everyone else. Finally Brady, a stocky teenager, confronted her. "Are you flippin' kiddin' me? Nobody here will ever get adopted. And," he said, leaning over her and leering, "especially not you. Know why? Cause you have no talent." Clara wasn't able to process what he said. She was standing there numbly long after he had gone. The sad part was, it was true. Libby painted, Celia wrote, Joanne swam, and Ricky had a green thumb. Brady, Lola, Sam, Alex, Charlie… everybody but her. Clara was not clumsy, but not overly graceful. She wasn't bad at art, or music, but she just didn't GET them. And cooking… Clara loved cooking with a passion. Souffles, especially, had been her mother's favorite, and so she threw herself into their making with an exuberance that outshone the sun. But she couldn't cook. She fumbled around the utensils, messed up the oven, confused the ingredients. The one thing she loved, she couldn't even do right. So she knew that she was talentless.

However, even the "talentless" Clara Oswald could hold on to one dream: the one to travel the world. Those were the only things that her mam had left her: the souffles, and her travel book, 101 Places to See Before You Die. It was her dream, to be able to go to all of them: Japan, America, California. But she knew, in her her heart, that it would never happen. Until the impossible happened.

"It's for you, dear," called Trisha, a busty blonde teen. She was normally quite frigid towards Clara and the other younger children, but having mail… that was a special occasion indeed. Normally, it was spam, adressed to the matron. None of the children had gotten letters since Clara could remember, but here it was, on thick creamy expensive paper, addressed quite clearly to her.

Clara Oswin Oswald

First Floor, Third Bunkbed to the Left

140 Remy Road, Lancashire

She stared in amazement at the crest, old-fashioned and robustly colorful. From… "Hog- warts," Clara said, sounding it out. "Hogwarts." She grinned and, holding back her excitement, tore open the letter. "My god." And then the doorbell rang, again, and a woman with an austere look and a forced smile on her face stepped in briskly.

"Ah. Miss Oswald. Might I see your guardian?"

"M' guardian?" Clara looked up, wide-eyed, at the rich, queerly dressed, lady. "Th' matron, you mean? Yeah, I'll get 'er." She ran off, spreading the word, bragging quietly. "There's a rich lady 'ere! T' see me!" She grinned and ran off to fetch Matron.

"No offense, but… who are you? An' whaddaya want with our Clara?" The matron, Matron Agnes, asked. "My name is Professor McGonagall. And I am here to offer Clara a place at a school for people with… special abilities. You might know them as magic." She smiled gently. "'Your' Clara has magical abilities." Clara watched, wide-eyed, as she withdrew a- a stick? "This is my wand," she said softly, "It allows me to perform spells. Wingardium Leviosa," she said, and one of the tables, shabby and dusty, flew into the air. Clara drew in her breath. The matron sat down, heavily, on the floor.

"Take her," she said softly. "Take her, and give her a good life."

Clara left the orphanage that very minute, leaving her belongings behind and walking out with the austere woman- "Professor McGonagall," she interjected. "It is, isn't it?" She suddenly felt very shy. "It's nice to meet you," she said quietly. "And- what's that stick?" She couldn't help herself. She was overwhelmed with curiosity about this strange, tall woman.

"It is called a wand." Her English was precise and crisp. "And it is one of the major conduits of magic."

"One of the major conduits?" Clara asked, and listened to the professor tell her about the early signs of magic, her face paling. "...almost every young witch and wizard will show signs of nonverbal, non-wand magic. Being able to will yourself to safety, surviving long falls, and other things. Whenever you feel strong emotion, your magic will… well up inside you, try and protect you." Clara looked down, face paling._I have never done any of those things. I don't remember doing any of those things_, she tried to reassure herself. But she felt a small bead of worry beginning to grow inside. Oh well, might as well get this over with.

She looked up sadly. "I've never done any of that."

Professor McGonagall sighed. "Yes, well, that's why we didn't pick you up earlier. Hogwarts starts on September 1st."

Clara looked up, amazed. "That's tomorrow!"

She sighed. "Yes. That's why we need to hurry." She grabbed Clara's arm. "This might be slightly uncomfortable." And then she twisted, and Clara was pulled headfirst into a vortex, screaming. The air was pulled out of her lungs as her body was squeezed into an infinitesimally small space, and then squashed into a tunnel, a soundless, lightless tunnel. And just when she could bear it no longer, when her body had given up all hope, she was shoved back into everyday life- "We moved," she said incredulously. "From Lancashire to London. That's… far."

"That's evident. Please do attempt to keep up," McGonagall said crisply, hiding her shock at Clara's quick recovery from the Apparation and stepping towards a pub.

Clara looked around shyly. "Why are we going towards… the Leaky Caudron?" she said softly, questioning its pronunciation- and the title in itself. It sounded like a very 'wizard' title. "Is it… something to do with getting into the wizard world?" Clara was never sure of herself around this woman. She was surprised when Professor McGonagall looked at her, eyes wide, and nodded.

"Muggles- they are non-wizarding persons- cannot see it. Look." She pointed at the families, the teens, the blushing couples, and the other people passing by the store as though it did not exist.

"But who're they?" Clara asked quietly. She pointed at a black-robed family, with a father and a mother leading two tall sons through the door. "They look like-" "Wizards. And they are." Professor McGonagall pressed her lips together, walking faster as her hands tapped, white-knuckled, on the side of her odd robe. "A very old, pureblood family, with very traditional values- oh! Of course. Purebloods," she explained, "are those born of two wizards: 'pure' genetics, if you will. It's all a load of nonsense," she told Clara, who felt the sinking pit in her stomach beginning to grow deeper and deeper.

"My god," she whispered softly. "I'm talentless again." Once more, she was sinking to the bottom- not the worst, but through no fault of her own, inferior. "My god," she said again, even quieter, in a voice only meant for her. "There go my chances. Again. Talentless."

"Talentless?" a cool voice next to her said. "Well, let's see."


	2. Chapter 1

"Ah!" The short, curvy girl jumped backward from Sherlock, her legs moving independently and landing a foot away. "Sorry, I'm-"

"A Muggleborn. That much is obvious. An orphan too, shown by the abscence of a parent or guardian and by the tattered dress, several years out of fashion. Unbelievably insecure, although with an internal impulse to be social and a desire popular: no surprise there. Moderately intelligent." His lip curled as he surveyed her. He knew, internally, that he was taking his anger about the umbrella incident out on the petite girl. There were several more things that he was preparing to say, cruel things, but he paused to gauge her reaction. But instead of the expected slap, or the ever courteous "piss off," or even, as had happened before, an eye roll, she looked up at him in disbelief.

"My god. You're a right proper genius. That's amazing. That's just not fair." She looked up at him, tall and bony.

"Well. That's not what people normally say." And then, just for a moment, she could see a small boy, afraid of the world, through his eyes.

"Well, what do they normally say?" She asked quietly, unsurely.

"Piss off," he said, with the snarky, bitter wall up again. Clara looked up at him with, once again, disbelief.

"Well. That's not very polite." She didn't try to comfort him, but she wanted to scream, _At least you know you're better than them._ Her? She was alone. Talentless and alone. When she next spoke, voice was light, with a hint of jealousy in it. "You have an ungodly amount of talent. I would like to borrow some of it." And then, with a slight, cheeky smile on her lips, she patted his hand and took off, jacket flying behind her, after Professor McGonagall.

"Oh, Sherlock." Mycroft sauntered up with a knowing smile on his lips. "That was absolutely adorable. You know, I do believe that she is in your year at Hogwarts." Sherlock straightened up and, with a slight pink tinge on his cheeks, warned Mycroft off with a snarl. "Now, shall we stop this prattering and head out to Diagon Alley?" he asked quickly, trying to forget about the girl- something Oswin, he had seen from her Hogwarts letter. Oswin, he dubbed her quickly, and walked away fast, heading into Diagon Alley. But truly, all that he could think of was her small face, smiling softly as she dubbed him a 'right proper genius.'

They entered Diagon Alley quickly, Sherlock rolling his eyes at the gaggle of women and girls crowding around Flourish and Blotts. "Gilderoy Lockhart," he sighed, and glared at the long line. It was boring enough to have to spend an entire day purchasing school supplies. He had tried to hold off this useless expedition for as long as possible, but his Mummy was unswayable.

"Now, dear, let's head to Flourish and Blotts first." He sighed softly and followed her to the line leading out of the shop. Bored! was the word graffitied across every possible surface on his mind palace. "Mummy, you know very well how much I… dislike… that man."

But, dear, have you read his books? They're absolutely brilliant! The way he defeated the werewolf…" Sherlock had already tuned out, carefully plastering his 'attentive son' expression on his face while adding 'Gilderoy Lockhart' to his mental list of things not to talk about with his mother.

-POV-

"So, I have no wizarding money and no Muggle money. How will we go about this? Will I get a loan?" Clara asked. She had been asking the professor questions about money and all the shops ever since she entered Diagon Alley, after being told off softly for talking to 'that Holmes boy.' She didn't really take the warning seriously, although did remember it for future purposes. When Professor McGonagall looked at her curiously, she elaborated. "You know? A loan? Where you lend somebody money, and they repay you later with a little bit more? You do have loans here, right? I'll get a job or help people with things or whatever. I will repay it, though."

Clara was, suddenly, very scared. She had been tossed into this world fast, moving from a lonely orphanage to the middle of a pandemonium of a market, with vendors hawking 'cheap dragon scales' and 'the best price for quills'. And so her mind had tried to narrow the sensory input down to one thing: the money. She had never had any money, and the wizarding money appeared to be made of pure, real gold. So of course, the topic of 'how on earth will I get the money for my school supplies' was at the top of her list.

Professor McGonagall looked down, stunned at the petite, Muggleborn girl. "Yes, we do give out student loans, but you are only eleven, and Muggleborn. No offense. There is an easier way: you can rent robes, books, and even a wand from the school."

"No," Clara said. "I want to buy it myself." She knew that it was not a smart decision, to take on a job in addition to this new, unconforming school, but she couldn't help herself. The wands in the shop were beautiful, elegant works of art. She wanted, just for once, to be able to own something that beautiful, to be able to say, 'Yes, this is mine. I bought it for myself.' She looked down at her feet, looked up, and said it again. "I would like to take a loan, please."

Professor McGonagall was about to answer when the Holmeses came bustling by. "Oh, look, sherlock! There is that girl who was so lovely to you in the Cauldron!" Sherlock's cheeks burned a bright red, and Clara looked, with a slight, apologetic smile on her lips, at his agony.

"Now that's one problem I'll never have to suffer through," she said under her breath, only half-listening to the conversation between the adults. "What?" She asked, realizing that they were talking to her.

"I asked you, dear, if you would like to borrow some of our old robes and things. We've got plenty!" Mrs. Holmes said with a delighted grin upon her face.

_Oh well_, Clara thought. _I've gone all out already._ She took a breath. "No, thank you very much. I am planning to withdraw a loan and take on extra work to pay it back." Mrs. Holmes looked shocked, and then, softly, Holmes stepped up.

"Excellent choice there, love," he said in his quiet, rumbling voice. "Might I assist you in finding the best-priced items for the loan?" Clara grinned at the boy- Sherlock Holmes- and tapped a finger on her chin. "You most certainly may, Mr. Holmes." And then, with a curt nod from Professor McGonagall and a warning from Sherlock's mother, they were off, laughing, to the nearest store. "Young love," his mother sighed, and both children looked back to glare, surprised.


End file.
